and the wine made our mouths too loose
by LBx
Summary: A collection of US/UK drabbles.
1. a fake I love you

**i.**

Arthur doesn't understand why he lets himself get wooed into these situations. Alfred knows him too well; all it takes is a couple drinks, a suggestive hand on his thigh, warm laughter in his ear, and his resolve crumbles each and every time. Even though Arthur knows it will hurt him, when Alfred flashes that smile resistance is futile.

And he thinks, bitterly, that he must be some sort of masochist. Weaves his fingers through Alfred's hair, stares down at the man knelt between his legs, and tries not to let his breath hitch when Alfred murmurs "I love you". But the emotion resonates along the length of his cock and he feels it piercing him – the empty words, oft repeated but never believed. Alfred doesn't love him anymore and their whole _thing_ is just some flight of fancy. It comes and goes at Alfred's whim, whether he likes Arthur's accent that day, when he needs Arthur to back his foreign policy, such silly, superficial reasons that leave Arthur feeling hollow and used.

He closes his eyes as Alfred presses kisses to the tip of his cock – his thigh, his stomach, anywhere he can reach. If he lets go enough, he can no longer hear the broken mantra Alfred is whispering into his skin ("I love you I love you oh god England I love you'); imagines that the hand clasping his is smaller, that Alfred is naught but a young boy again waving at him from the shoreline.

Imagines bodies curled around each other, innocent and adoring, laughing as the wind howled outside and Alfred wailed about spirits walking the streets. Alfred, the child who loved him unconditionally until he neglected him, until Arthur forgot how much he needed him to be happy.

An entire empire was under his thumb, but isn't it always that you can't forget your first?


	2. drinking together

**ii.**

"Maybe you're not so bad after all," Arthur announces one night, slamming his glass onto the tabletop and shooting Alfred a satisfied look. And he continues – not so much complementing as bragging – that it's all about a nation's _roots_, and Alfred's are in a decent sort of place. Had he been any other nation, Alfred would have accepted the admission with a smile and nod; but he's not any other nation and he's certainly not one of Arthur's.

"So no hard feelings about rejecting the monarchy?" Alfred asks, amused, as he leans over to fill Arthur's glass up again.

"Old wounds," the Brit mumbles between his drink.

The American grins. Shifting, he draws himself closer to Arthur, leaning over so that his mouth hovers just beside the other's ear. "No regrets then?" A hand lands warm on Arthur's thigh, its partner sliding around to settle across slim shoulders. For a confused moment the Brit frowns at him, though whether he's puzzled by the question or the contact Alfred can't tell.

Arthur downs his glass and sets it on the table again. "Old wounds," he repeats but without meeting Alfred's eyes, gaze cast to where his hand is fisting in the carpet.

"You're drunk," Alfred laughs, knocks their heads together so that his breath is teasing in Arthur's ear. His teeth pull lightly at the flesh of the lobe; Arthur manages to suppress his tremble but can't quite stop the blush heating his face.

He also doesn't pull away.

"England. Arthur. Iggy." Alfred murmurs against his skin, laughter still evident in his voice as he works his way around to Arthur's lips. The kiss leaves Arthur feeling disoriented and he presses a hand over his mouth, trying to ignore the warmth that is settling between his legs.

"You're drunk," he grumbles, repeating Alfred's earlier assessment even as he leans back into the couch, body opening to the American's incessant touches.

Alfred pauses while he moves to straddle Arthur's lap. "Maybe I am," he grins (and Arthur definitely feels the downward rush of blood), "but I won't regret it in the morning."

This time Arthur does lean away, reaches out a hand to push their bodies apart only to find it connecting with the American's erection. The sound Alfred makes is enough to make Arthur forget _why_ he touched it in the first place. "Bloody-"

"-hell," Alfred finishes in a breathless groan. Then he slips a hand down to return the favour, fingers hastening to release the buttons on Arthur's trousers. "Do it again."

He shouldn't, but he does anyway, swallowing hard as Alfred's fingers finally wrap around his cock. Pushing Alfred's pants down past his hips, Arthur looks up into the American's flushed face. Arthur knows Alfred means it when he says no regrets – what's in the past is in the past, and Alfred did turn out okay despite everything. Despite leaving, despite breaking Arthur's heart too many times to count (but doesn't he always come back, with wild eyes and lazy smiles, mischievous hands always ending up where they _shouldn't_).

"Faster England," comes the low instruction in Arthur's ear. One, two, three strokes and Arthur sets a rhythm, trying his best to match Alfred's fumbling tempo. And all he can hear are Alfred's low keening moans and the broken, noiseless pants his own mouth emits as Alfred's fingers tease the tip of his cock. When Alfred finally stiffens and gasps, coming in Arthur's hand, the Brit finds he isn't far behind.


	3. growing pains

_"Do his hands in your hair feel a lot like a thing you believe in,  
or will you fly like a bird stealing bread out from under his nose?" - Iron and Wine_

_

* * *

  
_

**iii.**

It's impossible to try and keep Alfred still, Arthur notes as he watches the boy's toes flex and curl around the edge of the stool. The breeze is warm as it cycles in through the open windows and it's no wonder Alfred is restless, attention focused somewhere off above Arthur's head. Even the Brit himself is having trouble focusing on the cloth underhand; he hadn't anticipated letting out all of Alfred's hems when he'd decided to visit.

Arthur pauses in his work and wipes the sweat from his brow, glancing up when he realizes Alfred has taken to humming one of the regiment's drinking songs in a broken, lazy tone.

"Where did you learn that?"

"Don't know," admits the younger, bringing blue eyes down from the ceiling to blink at Arthur. "It has a nice tune."

Shaking his head, Arthur unfolds the last length of fabric until it settles around the boy's ankles. "You are full of surprises, America. What else have you learnt since I was last here?"

"S'not my fault you don't come visit more often," Alfred says as he jumps down off the stool. If there is any malice in the comment Arthur can't find it, but the remark leaves a bad taste. "I know you're busy," intervenes Alfred with a small, reassuring smile. When Arthur stands the American latches onto his hand, twists their fingers together as he pushes his small body up on tiptoes. "But you know," he observes, "one day you might come and find I'm taller than you."

For one startled moment Arthur doesn't recognize the devious glint in teasing blue eyes. With his free hand he pushes down gently on the boy's shoulders, until Alfred's feet are grounded flat on the earth again. "We wouldn't want that," the Englishman says lightly, voice cracking as he tries to laugh. "An entire new wardrobe would have to be tailored for you."

It's easier to laugh when Alfred makes a face. Patting the boy on the head, Arthur turns to put his sewing materials away. "Run off and change, America. Those clothes are much too warm for this season."

The colony emits a sound of agreement but doesn't make to leave. "England," he says, tilts his head up and studies the older nation. After a moment of contemplation he steps forward, rolls onto the balls of his feet and wraps arms around Arthur's waist. "If I grow any taller," he says, voice muffled against Arthur's back, "I won't be able to hug you properly anymore."

The English nation laughs. "Eventually the growing will stop," he assures. "It's only because you're so young." And Alfred nods, weaves his arms up around the other's neck when Arthur bends to draw him into an embrace. "Now," he says, tugging at a tuft of hair on the boy's head, "run along and change before I decide we need to trim your hair as well."

Alfred's laughter echoes throughout the small house as he breaks free from Arthur's arms and disappears from sight.


End file.
